


this dream of you

by vtforpedro



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 19:54:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17127713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtforpedro/pseuds/vtforpedro
Summary: In which Bilbo plants an acorn and a miracle grows.





	this dream of you

Bilbo copes.

That’s something he is good at, whether he likes to be or not. He coped after his father’s death, he coped after his mother began to fade away and followed in Bungo’s footsteps. It was difficult and the various sympathies and  _ oh, you don’t have to be alright with this’s _ only set his teeth on edge. He  _ had _ to be alright with it or he would never move on, he would waste away just like they had. So he had pursed his lips, snapped his braces, and simply accepted his fate.

The death of Thorin Oakenshield had to be the same. It was a different pain that he felt, sharper and more desperate, settling right in the middle of his chest. Sometimes the pain was unbearable, stealing his breath away and leaving him gasping. But he must cope, he must find his way through or he will be lost, never to find his way again.

Fili and Kili survived, only just so, and in them he found some comfort. There was pain there, incredible pain, always lurking behind their bright eyes but their smiles and laughter helped him through the worst of his days in Erebor. Fili was to be king far too young but he had squared his shoulders once he could stand from his sick bed and vowed that he would do his duty, no matter how unprepared he felt. Bilbo watched on, swelling with pride, and thought  _ they’ll be fine. _ He might have seen them clinging tightly to each other, tears steadily flowing down their cheeks, but he knew, deep within his heart, that they would do their uncle proud. So they all coped.

Bilbo couldn’t stay in Erebor, no matter how many times his friends asked him to. The mountain felt empty, too grand and quiet, and even though he knew it would be teeming with life in a few short months, he could not stay. There were ghosts around every corner, all with raven black hair and bright blue eyes, and he could no longer be haunted by them.

He said his goodbyes and began the journey home, Gandalf by his side.

It went smoothly, too smoothly, Bilbo craving loud company and drinking songs, a low voice murmuring in his ear, filling his head with stories of Erebor. But that was never to happen again and, yes, he must cope.

His first glimpses of the Shire bring a sort of distant contentment, something he knows is there but can’t particularly tap into. Bag End is empty when he reaches it and he only feels hollow when he knows he should be angry.    
  
_ Who is this person you pledged your service to? Thorin Oakenshield? _

It takes some time and haggling to get his belongings back but soon Bag End is filled with the comforts of home again, everything familiar and set in its place.

Bilbo tries not to hate it.

He takes tea with his neighbors and family members, answering their questions about his adventure, always leaving one part out.

_ I fell in love. I fell in love with dark hair and impossibly blue eyes, a deep voice that shook my very foundation. I fell in love with him. _

_ I fell in love with a lonely mountain, with green limestone, with marble statues and diamonds shining within stone, never hewn. I fell in love with a mountain in the east but he is gone and I could not stay. _ __   
__   
It doesn’t get any easier but he falls into his old routines, smoking every morning and baking every afternoon, sharing his bounties with his neighbors. The only noticeable difference in his life from before the quest is how early he wakes now, nearly always with the sun. He used to lie-in but it seems his many months on the road have conditioned him to rise early. If only he felt fully rested.

He is plagued with nightmares more often than not, of sharp teeth and fire, of large hands gripping his jacket, dangling him over the edge of an endless abyss. He wakes gasping, with tears on his cheeks, and immediately tries to forget. It is easier said than done and he only rarely falls back into a fitful sleep.

No one comments about the dark circles under his eyes but he sees his aunts and cousins looking at him with worry and tries to smile, if only for their sake.

They invite him to birthday parties but he finds he cannot go. The idea of a crowd is overwhelming, of being forced to kiss ladies’ cheeks and to drink with his uncles, to dance and make merry. It is beyond him and he pens heartfelt letters with excuses of why he can’t make it. They don’t question him and the food and medicines they leave on his doorstep only make him feel truly ill.

Winter ends and spring returns, filling the world with scents of field flowers and fresh water, of baking and pipe-weed smoke. Bilbo doesn’t wander far from Bag End but he begins to take his pipe outside more often, sitting on his smoking bench, blowing rings, something Bofur had taught him. It makes his heart twinge in both pain and nostalgia but he never gives it up.

It is a cool spring day, dark clouds looming in the north, promising an overnight rain shower, and Bilbo sits on his smoking bench, having just finished his pipe. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out the acorn, as he often does, and turns it over in his palm, looking at its familiar curves and its scaly cupule. He debates planting it, a thought he has become obsessed with lately, but he is always stopped by the memory of his conversation with Thorin. He doesn’t want to remember the bad anymore and he fears watching the tree grow over the years and never moving beyond his grief.

“Hallo, Mister Bilbo,” a cheerful voice says.

Bilbo looks at his fence and his neighbor, Hamfast Gamgee, who is standing next to his wheelbarrow. He smiles and waves. “Good afternoon, Hamfast. What do you have there?”

“Spring flowers for sale from the garden,” Hamfast says, gesturing for Bilbo to come nearer.

He leaves the bench and goes to the fence, peering down into the wheelbarrow and at the various budding flowers in shades of pink, purple, white and yellow. Crocus, tulips and lily of the valley, some of his favorites. He hasn’t done much gardening since he got back with it still being winter, his plants dormant, but for the first time in quite a while he feels his fingers itch.

“They’re lovely as always, Hamfast. How much for a few of each?”

“Three coppers per,” Hamfast says, smiling. “I don’t suppose you’ll be needin’ my assistance?”

“I think I’ll fare alright,” Bilbo says mildly. “We wouldn’t want Lobelia to think I’ve grown incompetent at planting flowers.”

“Aye, aye,” Hamfast says, chuckling.

“Let me fetch my coin purse and I’ll take them off your hands.”

Bilbo hurries inside and gets his coin purse from his bedroom, making his way back into the garden. Hamfast is carrying the flowers in their small pots to the flowerbeds and Bilbo helps him with the last few. When they’re done, Bilbo grabs his coin purse from his pocket and feels something land on the top of his foot.

Looking down, he sees the acorn and a gasp leaves him unbidden and reaching down he quickly snatches it up again. He cradles it in his palm, his heart beating frantically at the idea of losing it, and breathes out shakily. He slips it back into his pocket, deeper this time, and when he looks up at Hamfast, it is to see his neighbor watching him with sharp eyes.

“Important acorn, Mister Bilbo?” Hamfast asks, sounding only genuinely curious, without a hint of mockery.

Still, Bilbo’s cheeks flush and he clears his throat. “Ah… just an acorn,” he says. Hamfast only raises his eyebrows and Bilbo averts his gaze. “I picked it up on my… my journey, if you must know. A small piece of Middle Earth to carry home.”

When Bilbo braves looking up again, Hamfast is still watching him but his eyes have gone soft.

“Are you going to plant it?”

“I thought I might,” Bilbo says cautiously. “I suppose I haven’t gotten around to it.”

Hamfast looks rather too knowing. “A’course,” he says, looping his thumbs in his braces. “But it’s bad luck not to plant such a thing, I’d say. It won’t grow after a while and it’d be a shame not to see an oak from another part of the world. Why, right there would be the perfect spot!”

Bilbo looks at where Hamfast is pointing, the empty spot next to his smoking bench, just far enough from Bag End that mighty roots wouldn’t upset the foundation. It is a perfect spot, one Bilbo had already thought of, but the idea of planting the acorn brings up his old panic and he wipes a bit of sweat off his forehead.

“I suppose it would,” he says quietly. “Yes… yes, a perfect spot.”

Hamfast is quiet for a moment, observing Bilbo still, which is a bit unnerving. “I don’t know what happened on that adventure of yours,” he says, “but I reckon new life might be just what you need after it.”   
  
Bilbo smiles, a bit on the weak side. “I’m sure you’re right,” he says, resting his hand over his pocket, to reassure himself that the acorn is still there. “I’ll plant it soon.”

“Another great oak to watch over Bag End for the next few generations. It can only mean good luck,” Hamfast says, patting Bilbo on the shoulder. “Well, I best be off, Mister Bilbo. More flowers to sell!”

He tips his hat and, after Bilbo says his goodbyes, heads back down the hill. Bilbo watches him go, glad for a true friend.

He turns to his flowerbeds and looks at his new additions. He is exhausted from a poor night of sleep but the idea of gardening has taken hold and he fetches his trowel. The flowers are easily planted below his kitchen window, running alongside the smial, and look lovely in the bright afternoon sun. Bilbo sits back on his heels once he is finished, smiling a bit. Gardening is good for the soul, as his father used to say, and he believed him then and cannot help but believe him now.

Bilbo goes inside to clean up and gets luncheon ready for himself, a bacon and cheese sandwich, and sits down with a book in the sitting room. But he finds he cannot read and his appetite is still not what it used to be. He eats only half his sandwich and stares at the empty hearth, thinking of Hamfast’s words.

New life… new life indeed. But at what cost to his mental health?

_ One day it’ll grow and every time I look at it, I’ll remember. The good, the bad… and how lucky I am that I made it home. _

_ Thorin’s smile, growing wider and more beautiful, his eyes infinitely soft. _

Bilbo jerks a little at the memory but it doesn’t disturb his glare at the hearth. He doesn’t know how long he sits there but eventually soft pinks and oranges fall over the sitting room and he is vaguely aware it is coming on dusk.

_ It is a poor prize to take back to the Shire. _

That is all he needs, really, and Bilbo decides. He stands abruptly, his armchair moaning unhappily, and stomps to the front door. He opens it and steps into the cool evening, closing it with a bang, and grabs his trowel, heading for the smoking bench. It doesn’t take long to dig a hole, deep enough for the roots to take hold but not so deep water won’t reach it.

Bilbo takes the acorn from his pocket, hesitating just once, looking down at it. He turns it over and closes his eyes tightly, gripping it firmly in his palm.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there in time,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. But I’ll remember you. The tree will grow for both our sakes.”

He plants the acorn, covering it with fresh soil, watering it, and stands back to view his work. There is no guarantee it will grow, not after so many months, but deep within his heart, he feels he will see a sprout before the week is over. It won’t do him any good to think otherwise.

Bilbo reaches down, touching the freshly tilled earth, and sees black hair and blue eyes, a smile to melt his heart, and decides it’s enough. Thorin would approve, he knows, and that sets something in his heart to rights.

He goes back inside to find some dinner, hungry in a way he hasn’t been for quite a while, and thinks of the acorn, rightfully where it belongs.

——

Bilbo wakes the next morning with a sense of urgency he doesn’t quite understand. It’s still early, not even time for first breakfast, and he went to the market yesterday, so he has no idea why he feels the need to leap out of bed and run out of his front door.

He dresses slowly, trying to calm his mind, thinking about the cup of tea that is in need of making.

The rising sun casts the kitchen in hues of pinks and bright yellows and Bilbo squints a little as he makes some chamomile tea, in hopes that it eases his heart and restless legs. He sits in front of the kitchen stove to warm his bones, feeling oddly cool, and thinks that he is being silly. It’s probably the vestiges of a nightmare that he can’t remember making him uneasy and he decides he needs a smoke before he delves into breakfast.

Bilbo fetches his pipe and a pouch of pipe-weed from the mantel in the sitting room and makes his way outside, breathing in the fresh spring air. It does his lungs good and he feels a sense of peace he doesn’t get very often these days, turning in the direction of his smoking bench.

Bilbo freezes because something about the familiar bench feels… off. He blinks at it for a moment and realizes it is because it is cast in shadow, not bright sunlight.

Because there is an oak tree towering next to it, it’s long branches and fat leaves providing shade over the bench.

Bilbo jerks rather nastily, gaping at the tree that was not there just the day before. It’s trunk is right over the spot where he planted the acorn… but it cannot be.

Trees simply do not grow overnight.

“Hamfast,” Bilbo growls, stomping down his stone steps and to the gate. He gives the tree a wide berth, for some reason frightened to go near it, and leaves his garden, beginning to hurriedly walk down the lane.

Halfway down the hill, Bilbo stops.

There is simply no way his neighbor would have been able to move a fully grown oak tree into his yard without him noticing, let alone without killing the tree by destroying its roots. Hamfast cannot be the culprit, as much as he would like him to be. The tree is big enough to be thirty years old.

Bilbo slowly turns back around, swallowing when he gets a look at his smial and the two oak trees that now tower over it. Feeling sweat gathering on his palm, Bilbo makes his way back into his garden. He stares at the tree for quite a while before he braves his first steps up to it. It looks like a normal tree, however fast it grew, and Bilbo suddenly has an idea.

The acorn he had picked up had been from Beorn’s garden, which had bees the size of his fist, and pumpkins and squash much larger than they should have grown. Flowers out of season, animals that knew how to clean dishes… a house and garden full of magic.

So that is what this tree is. A magical oak tree come from far away to grace his garden. He feels himself relax somewhat, even if after all of this time, owning a ring, knowing a wizard, visiting Rivendell, Beorn and Mirkwood aside, he is still not quite used to magic. It doesn’t touch the borders of the Shire as far as he knows and growing up the only magic to be had was Gandalf’s fireworks, not magical trees. Though there are the rumors about the Old Forest…

Bilbo sighs in relief. Perhaps it is not the work of a dark being or his neighbor. Perhaps he has simply brought a bit of magic into the Shire.

He steps up to the tree, tentatively reaching out and laying his hand over the bark.

A sudden breeze picks up, rustling the leaves, and he looks up at the branches. Tall, strong, unbreaking, much like someone he used to know. Swallowing a lump in his throat, Bilbo takes notice of acorns adorning the branches, and smiles a little. They are far too early for spring, normally only appearing in autumn.

“Already prepared to spread your magic?” he asks quietly, patting the trunk.

A blue songbird lands on a branch, trilling happily, and Bilbo watches it for a time. Another spring breeze tousles his hair and he is surprised to find that his cheeks are wet. Hastily wiping them off and sniffing, Bilbo takes a step back.

“Enough of that now. He wouldn’t want it,” he says, nodding decidedly.

The songbird hops along the branches and comes to a dark spot on one of the thickest branches. It trills loudly and he watches it, frowning. The dark spot is about as wide as his hand and looks out of place, but it is not until the leaves are rustled that he sees what it is, cast in golden light, and gasps.

It is an acorn. The biggest acorn that he has ever seen and he stares at it, transfixed.

Magic indeed. Perhaps he should write to Gandalf… at some point. He rather wishes to keep this tree to himself, even if he suspects a certain gardener might notice it before the day is out. Deciding he’ll face Hamfast when he comes, Bilbo stretches up on his toes, wishing he could see the acorn better. He wouldn’t want to disturb it before its time but he wishes he could at least touch its smooth surface.

Shaking his head, Bilbo moves to his smoking bench and sits down heavily, letting out a sigh. A magical tree, in his garden… what would his friends say? It is an entertaining thought and he smiles to himself as he imagines Bofur’s wonder and cheer, Balin’s logic and reasoning, and Ori’s soft awe.

He lights his pipe and blows out a smoke ring, glancing at the tree.

“We’ll have many years together, won’t we?” he asks it.

Another breeze shakes the leaves and he feels rather like it whispers  _ yes. _

He takes breakfast and luncheon out on his smoking bench, not particularly wanting to leave the great oak tree, and talks to it. He tells it of his journey to Erebor and back again, recounting what Beorn’s garden looks like in as much detail as he can, the acorn’s first home. His father always used to say that talking to plants ensures they will give you greater joy, whether it be hardier vegetables, brighter flowers, sweeter fruits or stronger trees. Perhaps there is some truth to it and Bilbo doesn’t hold back. He tells the tree of Thorin, no matter how hard it is to say his name, and when he is done, he feels wrung out but not in a terrible way. More as if he has… unloaded a bit of a burden, telling someone of Thorin for the first time, someone who was not there.

He still won’t tell any of his friends and neighbors about him, knowing they would be able to see his heartbreak and make guesses of their own.

It is coming on tea time when he hears a familiar whistled tune coming up the lane and he leans back on the bench, prepared for the first gasp.

It comes when Hamfast has reached the gate and he stares up at the tree, swiping his hat off his head and clutching it to his chest.

“Mister Bilbo, did you have a tree delivered today?” he asks, sounding hopeful that this will be the explanation.

Bilbo chuckles a bit. “I’m afraid not, Hamfast,” he says. “It grew overnight.”

Hamfast invites himself into the garden and approaches Bilbo as if he is approaching a wild wolf. “Overnight, you say?” he asks cautiously, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You didn’t say it was a magical acorn, Mister Bilbo.”

“I rather didn’t know myself,” Bilbo admits, looking up at the leaves above him. “But I picked it up from a magical garden, so I suppose that explains it. There’s nothing to fear, Ham, it’s much like any oak.”

“Aye, aye…” Hamfast says, wiping a bit of sweat off his brow. “Was it an elvish garden?”

“A skin-changer’s,” Bilbo answers and smiles when Hamfast pales.

“A skin-changer,” he says faintly. “Why, I never!” He begins to make his way around the tree, staring up at it in wonder, pausing halfway around. “By the Green Lady!”

Bilbo stands and goes to stand by Hamfast’s side, looking up at the acorn - has it gotten even bigger since he saw it first this morning? - and clears his throat. “Ah, yes… it apparently produces the occasional giant acorn. Beorn was large himself, as were his bees, so I suppose it’s not all that surprising…”

He doesn’t know why but he feels protective over his acorn and is glad it is hidden from view from the road.

“Giant men, giant bees, giant acorns!” Hamfast says, sounding cheerful now. “What an adventure it must have been, Mister Bilbo!”

“Yes… yes, quite an adventure,” Bilbo says, resting his hand over the tree trunk, imagining that he feels its life pulsing within.

When he glances at Hamfast, he sees that he’s being watched with kind, understanding eyes, and wonders when he became so transparent. Or it’s simply to Hamfast, who he is closer to than any other hobbit.

“You have the strangest luck, Mister Bilbo,” Hamfast says. “Not bad luck, only strange and something beyond my understandin’, I think. Wizards and kings and elves… you’ve seen it all and you came back to us in one piece! That’s good luck, that is.”

Bilbo chuckles, thinking of the scrapes he had gotten into on his journey, and cannot deny the statement. “I suppose,” he says, patting the trunk before taking his hand away. “Will you come in for tea?”

“Can’t, Mister Bilbo, but thanks much,” Hamfast says, finally returning his hat to his head. “Got to tend to Missus Chubb’s garden before the sun goes down. But I’ll take you up on that offer tomorrow, if you’ve got the time.”

“Oh,” Bilbo says, looking at the tree, “I believe I will.”

Now that it’s there, he finds himself hesitant to leave his garden, as if he must protect it. He doesn’t say that to Hamfast, however. They say their goodbyes, Hamfast repeatedly looking back at the tree as he goes down the hill, and Bilbo goes inside to make tea, bringing it back out to sit below the tree and resume his tale.

——

When Bilbo wakes his bedroom is already brightened by the morning sun and he sits up cautiously. It is certainly later than he has been waking lately and he feels a sense of fear. He had dreamt of great oak trees and blue eyes and wonders if the tree will still be there when he goes outside. It is a primal fear, distressing, and he feels sweat gathering on his lower back.

He forces himself to take his time in getting up and dressing, heading into the kitchen to get a cup of tea. His stomach is churning too much for breakfast and after dawdling for a while, he decides he is being cowardly and makes his way outside.

It is still there, towering tall and unbreakable, its leaves rustling in a breeze. Bilbo lets out a shaky breath, closing his eyes tightly, his heart beginning to calm down. If it had been gone… well, it doesn’t bear thinking about. He sips on his tea and walks down to the tree when something catches his eye in the branches.

A rather large something.

Bilbo stares, not quite sure what he is seeing, before he realizes it is a person. A person hanging from the branches, unnaturally still, and Bilbo feels his heart begin to pound again for reasons he can’t understand.

The person is too large to be a fauntling daring to climb in Bilbo’s yard and he takes a few tentative steps forward, peering up through the shaded branches.

His tea cup falls to the ground, spilling its contents, and rolls away. Bilbo doesn’t notice.

The person is wearing blue, a blue shirt with silver stitching and dark trousers, boots with a steel toe. Their hair is dark, flowing behind them from where their head is leaning back, and he cannot see blue eyes but he knows they are there behind closed eyelids.

Branches surround his arms, holding him up, another thick branch under his rear so he doesn’t dangle.

Bilbo stares, vaguely aware of his vision darkening at the corners, his heart fit to burst in his chest. He stands very still, scared that if he moves he will disappear, because he cannot be real. He is a vision of Bilbo’s imagination, of his hopes and dreams and nightmares, come to haunt him. He is gone and he will not be coming back and Bilbo inhales sharply at the thought, an ache blossoming in his chest.

He closes his eyes again, counting to ten, willing Thorin Oakenshield to be gone, to be at rest. But when he opens his eyes, he is still there, and when Bilbo looks closer, he can see his chest rising and falling. Breathing… real.

“Thorin,” Bilbo whispers, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, but he will not let them fall. It hurts to even say his name, feels as if it is forced out from his chest, and he gasps for air. “Thorin,” he says again, louder this time.

Thorin’s hair is swaying in the breeze, real, and Bilbo is filled with a sense of urgency.

“Thorin!” he calls, hoping beyond hope. “Thorin, please!”

Thorin doesn’t stir.

Bilbo begins to feel panicked. Thorin is very high up and though it looks like the branches have a tight grip on him and Bilbo isn’t sure how to get him down without enlisting help. He has a ladder, yes, but he isn’t sure if it’s even tall enough, and he’s not sure he would be able to climb it with how weak his knees feel.

“Please come down,” he pleads, his voice cracking.

The tree gives an odd shudder, almost as if it lives, and suddenly it begins to move. The branches stretch toward the ground, the tree bowing as if it has a will of its own, and Thorin comes closer to Bilbo, impossibly close.

Bilbo gapes as the tree deposits Thorin on the ground, tenderly, minding his head, and the branches slither away after, the tree standing straight again, now unmoving.

Bilbo runs to Thorin’s side, dropping on his knees, and flutters his hand above his chest. He braves making the final step and rests his palm over Thorin’s heart, waiting until he feels a strong beat, unimagined,  _ real. _

A soft sob escapes his lips and he moves his hands to Thorin’s cheeks, cupping them, soaking in their warmth.

_ A mighty tree, which grows overnight, hearing a sorrowful call. The trees  _ gives, _ Bilbo, it gives back what we have lost, so that we may cherish it again. _

That is his mother’s voice, come back to him from his memories, telling him a tale of a giving tree before bed, a tale he had asked to hear over and over again.

He brushes Thorin’s hair back and touches his brow, his beard, his thick eyebrows. Thorin still hasn’t moved but he is breathing and that must mean something. Bilbo feels tears tracking down his cheeks but he ignores them, leaning forward, pressing his brow to Thorin’s, as they had done once before among sick and diseased trees, a grounding point between themselves.

“Thorin, please,” he whispers, clutching at his shoulders.

When he pulls back, it is to see Thorin’s eyelids flutter and he gasps again, his heart skipping many beats.

A low groan comes from the back of Thorin’s throat and it is the most beautiful sound Bilbo has ever heard. Thorin’s eyes crack open and Bilbo holds his breath, watching the unfocused blue stare up at the sky before flitting back and forth, finally coming to a rest on Bilbo’s face.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says, a desperation in his voice he has never heard before.

“…Bilbo?” Thorin asks, his voice deep and hoarse, low and filled with confusion.

“Yes, Thorin, it’s me,” Bilbo says, choking on a cry he wishes he could let loose. “It’s your Bilbo.”

Thorin turns his head in Bilbo’s direction, his brow lowered in a frown, and with what seems like a great effort, he lifts his hand to Bilbo’s cheek. It is trembling and he seems weak but his fingers, warm and comforting, brush along the tears there.

“My Bilbo,” Thorin says, his other hand lifting to catch Bilbo’s where it rests on his chest. He grips it, steadily with more strength, his eyes opening wider. “My Bilbo,” he repeats.

Bilbo cannot help but let out a small cry, leaning down, dropping his forehead onto Thorin’s chest. “Tell me you’re real,” he croaks. “Tell me you’re here with me.”

“I’m here,” Thorin gasps, slipping his hand underneath Bilbo’s jaw, angling him upward again. “Bilbo, I am here.”

Bilbo looks into Thorin’s eyes, which are glistening with tears, and surges forward. He knows it is presumptuous and it has been a long time but he presses his lips to Thorin’s. To his great relief, Thorin presses back, and it is clumsy and messy, because they are both shaking and desperate.

When they pull apart, Thorin wraps his arms around Bilbo, sitting up with some effort. He yanks Bilbo into his chest, his grip impossibly tight, burying his nose against Bilbo’s neck, and his chest rumbles with heady sobs to match Bilbo’s own.

Bilbo clutches Thorin desperately, his hands gripping his shirt, and cries into Thorin’s ear. “How?” he manages to ask, hiccuping. “How, Thorin? How can this be?”

Thorin takes in deep, shuddering breaths, lifting his head, his hands coming up to rest over Bilbo’s cheeks. His eyes are red-rimmed, tears flowing down his cheeks, and he shakes his head slightly. “I was asked a question,” he says, his voice breaking. “My Maker asked if I could see you once more, hold you once more, would I choose to do so? Would I leave my family to be with you once again?

What could I say besides yes?”

“But you were at rest!” Bilbo says, sniffing. “You were at peace. You were back with your family, with your… your mother and father and grandfather and your brother too, weren’t you?”

“Aye,” Thorin whispers, a slow, lopsided smile coming to his lips. “And they told me if I did not take the chance to see you again then I was a greater fool than they had thought I was.”

Another soft sob leaves Bilbo at his words and it is his turn to bury his face against Thorin’s neck, his heart thudding deeply within his chest. He is trembling and cannot seem to control his limbs but Thorin is there to catch him should he fall, his strong arms wrapped tightly around him.

“Why, Thorin?” he asks.

“Do you not know?” Thorin asks, his voice gentle. When Bilbo doesn’t reply, Thorin noses at him until he lifts his head again, so they are facing each other. “Because I love you with all my heart, Bilbo, and I would not be parted from you again.”

Bilbo can do nothing but kiss Thorin then, this time with less urgency, still quite wet, but he hopes that it says everything he cannot right now. They kiss deeply, unable to stop touching each other, and only break apart with a gasp for breath, staring at each other.

“I never thought I’d see you again. In this life or the next,” Bilbo admits, though it pains him to do so, his fear said out loud for the first time.

“I heard you,” Thorin says, his hand moving to run his fingers through Bilbo’s hair. “I heard you tell our tale to the tree and I heard your grief and sorrow. I could not leave you to torment for the rest of your life and into the next.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo whispers, simply because he can and it no longer hurts but his name needs to be said, over and over again. “You came back to me.”

“And I do not mean to leave again,” Thorin says, brushing his nose against Bilbo’s. “If you will have me.”

Bilbo gives a watery laugh, pressing a soft kiss to Thorin’s lips. “For the rest of my life, Thorin.”

They hug tightly again until Thorin murmurs, “Forgive me, Master Baggins, but I am incredibly thirsty,” into Bilbo’s ear and, laughing, Bilbo stands on shaky knees.

It is with a great effort that he helps to pull Thorin to his feet and though Thorin wobbles for a moment, clutching at Bilbo’s shoulder, he seems to regain his footing. He turns toward the tree, lifting his hand and resting it over the bark, his eyes closing in silent prayer.

Bilbo watches him, drinking in the sight of him, his regally sharp nose, his eyelashes brushing against his cheeks, his long hair, still streaked with silver. He is incredibly beautiful, as he always has been, and Bilbo swallows down another lump in his throat, brushing his own cheeks clean.

Thorin turns to him, a smile spreading, and his eyes are exceptionally soft. “How I have missed you,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along the corner of Bilbo’s eye, where no doubt more tears are trying to escape.

“I’ve missed you, you dratted dwarf. More than anything,” Bilbo says. “It’s been too long.”

“You planted the acorn when you needed to,” Thorin says, leaning down to press his forehead to Bilbo’s. “Though I am glad you did not wait years.”

“I wish I had planted it the moment I got home if it gave you to me,” Bilbo says but he cannot be bitter. He has witnessed a miracle after all. “Come inside.”

Thorin nods, reaching down to take Bilbo’s hand, and together they slowly make their way into Bag End.

The walls look brighter, more cheerful, and it feels warmer than it has since Bilbo returned from his journey. It feels like home again. Bilbo carefully watches as Thorin looks around the smial as well, a soft smile on his lips. He must force himself to lead Thorin to the kitchen, where he pours him a full glass of cool water, and watches as he drinks it down nearly in one gulp.

Chuckling, Bilbo fills it again. Thorin takes more time with this one but it is still gone quickly. “Enough for now or you’ll make yourself sick,” Bilbo scolds gently, still clutching onto Thorin’s hand.

“Perhaps some food to settle my stomach,” Thorin says hopefully.

Bilbo feels what little fear has remained ebb away. There is something infinitely promising about Thorin being thirsty and hungry… if he were a ghost come back to haunt him, surely he would not feel those things? Thorin is as real as Bilbo is and he relaxes into the thought, nodding.

“How about some breakfast?” he asks, smiling.

“A true hobbit breakfast. I can ask for no better,” Thorin says, grinning.

And, laughing, Bilbo takes Thorin to his pantry.   
  
Not long after, Bilbo is spooning fried eggs, crispy bacon and browned sausages onto a plate for Thorin. He is somewhat worried about the grease and serves buttered toast on the side in hopes that it might help to settle Thorin’s stomach further. But Thorin looks nothing but starved, looking over the spread with an appreciative eye, waiting for Bilbo to seat himself.

He’s not particularly hungry himself, still a bit shaken up after his very unpredictable morning, but Thorin only smiles softly in understanding when he takes a single egg and sausage.

Thorin begins to eat as dwarves always do, with rapt interest and crumbs everywhere. Bilbo watches fondly, unable to take his eyes off of him, and eats much more slowly. They sip tea, Bilbo having firmly denied Thorin ale, but Thorin seems to enjoy it anyway.

“A perfect breakfast,” Thorin announces, leaning back in his chair, settling his hands over his stomach.

Bilbo smiles. “I’m glad,” he says, handing Thorin his half eaten sausage, chuckling when he pops it whole into his mouth. “Are you… are you alright?”

Thorin’s eyes soften and he inclines his head. “I am well, Bilbo,” he says earnestly. “Truly,” he adds when Bilbo likely does not look very reassured.

“There are no… after effects?”

“From a man rising from the dead?” Thorin asks, laughing lightly. “No, not that I know of. I feel awake and well fed.”

“What’s the last thing that you remember?” Bilbo asks, unsure if he should, but Thorin looks nothing but eager to speak with Bilbo about anything and everything.

“I said goodbye to my family,” Thorin says, his tone somber. “There were more smiles than tears. They were happy for me. I then stepped through a door of endless light… and when I opened my eyes, I saw you.”

Bilbo sniffs a bit and nods, cradling his tea cup close. “When it’s time again… hopefully not for many decades yet,” he says hastily, “do you think you’ll go back to them? That the way hasn’t been closed?” It is a fear he has been thinking of since Thorin told him about his Maker’s question.

“I will see them again,” Thorin says, smiling fondly, his gaze far away. “I spent many months with them until you planted the acorn. It was enough to ease my heart until my time comes again.”

“I’m sorry to talk about something so… maudlin,” Bilbo says, wincing.

Thorin reaches across the table, taking up Bilbo’s hands, his thumbs running over the backs of them. “There is nothing I would not wish to speak with you about, Bilbo. Not anymore.”

Bilbo smiles faintly, turning his hands so he can grasp Thorin’s. “Will you stay with me for a while, Thorin? In the Shire?”

Thorin’s brow furrows. “…aye,” he says, slowly and cautiously. “I had hoped… I had hoped you would have me until the end.”

“But…” Bilbo trails off, raising his eyebrows, afraid to voice what he’s thinking. “What about Erebor?” he finally asks, breathlessly.

“Ah,” Thorin says, an odd smile coming to his lips. “I cannot go back.”

“It’s your birthright, Thorin. The company would rejoice to see you there.”

“Fili has been named king,” Thorin says gently, squeezing Bilbo’s hands. “They had a burial for me, Bilbo. I was entombed. If I were to come back, my people would believe I was a wraith… they would not trust me. Only Durin the Deathless has lived more than one life and I am not him. They would fear  _ me.” _

Bilbo frowns. “How can you be so sure?”

“I know dwarves,” Thorin says wryly, smirking a bit. “We are a suspicious lot. The dead should stay dead… and Fili will make a good king. In the end, I proved that I would not.”

“That’s not true,” Bilbo says, unexpectedly harsh. “I think you proved the opposite. You… you beat it, Thorin. You became a hero, more so than you already were.”

Thorin looks down at their joined hands, silent for a moment. “I am still susceptible. It runs in my blood… less so in Fili’s, of this I am sure. He has the heart of his father. He will be a better king than I ever could have been and I am glad for it. And… I would like to rest. The Shire holds the promise of a peaceful life with you, Bilbo. I would choose no other place to be.”

Tears gather in Bilbo's eyes but he blinks them away. “Then the Shire will be glad to have you,” he says, slowly standing from the table. “I always changed the ending of my story when I told it to my family and neighbors… I was afraid to speak the truth of the matter. You always live, in the end.”

“So I will not become a wraith here,” Thorin says, satisfied and smiling, watching Bilbo round the table, opening his arms.

Bilbo gladly slumps against Thorin, wrapping his arms around his neck, pressing his cheek to the top of Thorin’s head. “They’ll come to love you here, Thorin. Though not quite as much as I do, of course.”

Thorin chuckles, his arms tight around Bilbo’s middle. “I look forward to becoming a part of the Shire,” he says. He pauses for a moment, stiffening in Bilbo’s arms and just when Bilbo begins to draw back, he says, “I am sorry. Apparently I am in need of a bath.”

“A bit,” Bilbo admits, pulling back and grinning, carefully avoiding Thorin’s underarms. “How did you not come back smelling like spring flowers?”

“Growing from an acorn, I suspect,” Thorin says dryly, a blush on his cheeks. “…I also have no change of clothes.”

“We can order you new clothes,” Bilbo says, chuckling. “I’ll wash those in the meantime and see if I have any of my father’s left over. He was shorter than you but as wide.” He smiles, placing a kiss against Thorin’s brow, standing straight. “Up with you, I’ll show you to the washroom.”

Thorin takes Bilbo’s hand, standing, and together they leave the kitchen, wandering down to the washroom. Bilbo leads Thorin inside and begins to heat the tub, fetching fresh towels and different soaps for Thorin to choose from. He lights more candles and looks at Thorin when he’s finished.

“You’ll be alright?” he asks, not particularly liking the idea of leaving Thorin alone.

Thorin looks hesitant, his hands oddly restless at his sides. “I was hoping that you might join me,” he says very quietly, his eyes lowered.

Perhaps Bilbo is not the only one who does not wish to be alone.

“Oh,” he breathes out, slowly smiling. “I’d like that.”

Thorin looks relieved, coming nearer, taking up Bilbo’s hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “If it is not too forward of me, I would like to undress you.”

Bilbo blushes a little and coughs, unable to hide his smile. “I don’t think that’s particularly forward,” he says. “I wouldn’t mind returning the favor.”

They grin at each other and after a bit of shy fumbling, Thorin begins to slowly and methodically undress Bilbo. There is no heat in his gaze, only affection, but he does look rather appreciative when Bilbo is finally bare before him. Bilbo chuckles and undresses Thorin with a bit more effort than Thorin needed to put into it. But soon he is naked and Bilbo runs his hands carefully along Thorin’s delightfully hairy chest and stomach, watching his muscles jump.

He brushes his fingers along the spot where a scar should be but there is no gruesome wound, no pink or white scar, no life-ending trauma.

Thorin takes one of Bilbo’s hands, kissing his palm, a look of understanding in his eyes. “I am here,” he whispers.

It is just what Bilbo needs to hear and he sighs shakily, nodding. “Into the bath with you, Master Oakenshield,” he says, his voice wavering.

“As you wish,” Thorin says, climbing into the steaming water. He lets out a gusty sigh, leaning back and peering up at Bilbo expectantly.

Finding himself thankful that his bath is rather large as far as hobbit baths go, no comfort not thought of in Bag End, Bilbo slips into the bath, slowly so the water won’t slosh over the side. He settles between Thorin’s legs, leaning into Thorin’s chest, his back pressed against it. They sigh together, Thorin’s arms wrapping around Bilbo, and Bilbo’s arms resting over them.

They stay silent for a while, simply holding each other.

“What was it like?” Bilbo asks, his voice quiet. “Seeing them again?”

Thorin inhales somewhat sharply and Bilbo opens his mouth to apologize but Thorin shushes him. “It was wonderful,” he murmurs. “My brother had many things to say to me, most not so kind, but we wept when we held each other for the first time in well over one hundred years.” He strokes his hand along Bilbo’s middle. “There was no madness in my grandfather’s eyes. He embraced me and apologized. My grandmother… she died before Erebor fell but I always remembered her vividly. She appeared in my dreams.”

Bilbo smiles, glad of the smile he can also hear in Thorin’s voice.

“My mother and father… they said they were proud of me. My mother did not let me out of her sight for many days. She wished to hear everything about you… of that, I had plenty to say.”

“Posh,” Bilbo says, huffing a little when Thorin pinches his belly.

“Endless tales,” Thorin says with conviction. “She was my first supporter in coming back to you.” He sighs, kissing Bilbo’s temple. “Vili, my sister’s husband, perhaps cried most of all. He was always soft-hearted.” He chuckles. “Something that I reminded him of often enough.”

Bilbo laughs, shaking his head. “There’s nothing wrong with being soft-hearted, you know.”

“I have learned it well,” Thorin says seriously. “You taught me more than you will ever know,  _ ghivashel.” _

Smiling more, Bilbo intertwines his fingers with Thorin’s. “Tell me more.”

So Thorin does, telling Bilbo about lost friends and family, lost mentors and kings. He speaks of their reunions, of tears and forgiveness. He tells Bilbo of what the Halls of Mandos looks like for dwarves, a great mountain, much like Erebor but larger by far, seemingly without end. He talks of a private forge, of crafting there when his grief was too strong to bear, and hearing that Bilbo kisses his hands repeatedly.

Thorin tells Bilbo of watching over him, showing his family his love and of their approval.

He tells Bilbo of his Maker, Mahal, of his fiery hair and great beard, of his mighty smithing hammer. Of how he approached Thorin with a question and what his answer was, even if Bilbo is holding the proof of it in his arms.

He tells Bilbo of watching over his nephews, seeing and hearing their grief but being immensely proud of them for all they have accomplished in his absence. For being stronger than he ever knew them to be.

“We have to tell them, Thorin,” Bilbo says softly. Thorin tenses and Bilbo twists around so he can look him in the eye. “They deserve to know you’re here, that you live.”

“They will come here,” Thorin whispers, looking grieved. “They will wish to see it with their own eyes. They might not understand.”

“I think you underestimate them,” Bilbo says. “They will be overjoyed, Thorin. You’ll tell them what you told me and they’ll accept it just as I have. Imagine what your sister will say.”

Thorin smiles wryly. “She will try to kill me again,” he warns, his eyes rather mischievous. “She will not so easily forgive me that I left her in Erebor with only her sons to comfort her.”

“But she  _ will _ forgive you,” Bilbo says, smiling. “She’ll be so glad… I only hope they won’t try to take you from me.”

“They might,” Thorin says, sighing. “But I will not let them. My place is here, by your side.”

“Good,” Bilbo whispers, pressing a kiss to Thorin’s lips.

They become a bit wrapped up in each other as they kiss and when they pull away, breathless, they decide to finish their bath before the water grows frigid while they’re distracted. Bilbo washes Thorn’s hair with care, watching as he closes his eyes, seemingly lost in Bilbo’s touch. They wash each other with soap, fingers tracing each other’s curves, murmuring promises and sweet nothings between themselves.

When they have finished and drained the tub, they dry off and go down to Bilbo’s bedroom. He finds some trousers and a shirt for Thorin, a bit more ill-fitting that he would have hoped, short in both the legs and the arms. Bilbo thinks he looks radiant dressed as a hobbit anyway.

There is no pressing need to be anywhere and when Bilbo catches Thorin eyeing the bed, he decides a kip might be just what they need. They crawl under the sheets together and curl around each other, kissing and brushing their noses together.

“If I fall asleep, you’ll be here when I wake, won’t you?” Bilbo asks.

“Never to leave again,” Thorin swears. “I will always be here when you wake, Bilbo.”

“Good,” Bilbo says firmly, clutching at Thorin’s back. “I expect we have much catching up to do.”

Thorin smiles. “Tell me of your journey home and your time in the Shire.”

And so Bilbo tells Thorin, he recounts leaving Erebor and traveling back across Middle Earth with Gandalf, glossing over his grief as much as he can. With the way Thorin clings to him, he suspects he hears it anyway. Bilbo tells Thorin of coming back to an emptied Bag End and having to chase down his belongings, he tells Thorin of his friends and family bringing him too much food to eat and how they endlessly asked him about his journey. He talks to Thorin until he falls asleep and Bilbo smiles, kissing his brow, closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep himself.

They only wake when there is a knock on the door, Hamfast come to tea, and Bilbo feels something right settle in his heart when Hamfast sets eyes on Thorin and declares him to be exactly what Bilbo has been waiting for.

He knows that now and he will never forget, for as long as he lives, Thorin by his side. Growing old together, the way it was always meant to be.

**Author's Note:**

> I saw [this](http://radioproxy.tumblr.com/post/106452992171/please-also-consider-this-sometimes-bilbo-would) art and absolutely had to write a fic based on it, so here we are!
> 
> Thanks as always to my absolutely lovely beta [telltalelily](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/telltalelily) for all her amazing work!
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please remember to leave kudos and a comment. Thank you!
> 
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vtforpedro)


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